Cold, pale, grey...

Standing still against the change of seasons

Without a coffin, the corpse of yesterday

Ground Zero...

Catacomb of perished memories

Empty slot in this necropolis

Ground Zero...

Not a soul, not even troglodytes

There's not a soul...

Washed away with the rain

All the stains that were made from blood

And the canvas is white...

No traces of blood

Washed away with the rain

All the stains that were made from blood

And the canvas is white

From an artist lobotomized

Cold, as a winter's day

Pale, as a ghost in chains

Grey, as the ashes that drift with a nuclear wind

Cold, Pale, Grey

Cold, as a winter's day

Pale, as a ghost in chains

Grey, as the ashes that drift with a nuclear wind